


A Case of You

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 2018 Valentine's Day Challenge, 2018 Vday Challenge, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And she doesn't stick around too long, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, I promise, Insecure Sherlock, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's return remixed, Song fic, Tumblr Prompt, not canon typical Mary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-12 11:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13546179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: “Ages?” Still chuckling, Greg cards his hand through his hair. “You’ve only been home, what, a month? Before that he was planning his proposal.”“Five weeks, three days,” Sherlock corrects him. Greg looks at him in dawning shock and he reaches what is clearly the correct conclusion based on the implications at the same moment Sherlock realizes exactly what his admission means.Sherlock works himself into an emotional mess. John has to save him the best way he knows how.





	1. A Case of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).



> This is a multi-chapter story, and each chapter will be based on a different song-based prompt.
> 
> Prompt 1: A song by a female artist.

“The very notion of falling in and out of love. Preposterous.” Sherlock mumbles to himself, though he knows the non sequitur will not go ignored, and doesn’t look up from the stack of files he’s standing hunched over. They had once been meticulously (incorrectly, according to him) ordered, but are now in despairing disarray.

“Hmm?” Greg glances up from his computer screen, blinks a few times and frowns at the mess.

With an impatient huff through his nose, Sherlock hooks one ankle around the leg of a chair, pulls it to him, letting the metal feet shriek as they drag across the floor, and slumps dramatically into the seat, knocking a stack of files over with him as he drops. Some small part of Sherlock needs a response, anything to fill in missing data. The more clinically logical part of him, the part that keeps his heart on lockdown, hopes the awkward silence will prevail, that his fears will not be confirmed. He does not make eye contact with Greg.

“Oi! Watch it!” Greg’s protest is only half-hearted. They’ve been at it for hours. Days. A small eternity. He’s more than once thought about lighting a cigarette, conveniently forgetting it, and letting fate have its way. What had started out as a very bored Sherlock demanding perusal of Greg’s cold files has quickly devolved into a series of interconnected blackmailing cases. What’s more, Greg suspects (because he’s actually _not_ the idiot Sherlock makes him out to be) he is witnessing, first hand, Sherlock in some sort of emotional crisis. At the very least he’s working out the finer points of avoidance. What Greg can’t figure out is why Sherlock’s strop has taken up residence in his office rather than the tatty old couch at Baker Street. Unless… _“Surely not,”_ Greg thinks to himself.

“I’ve already read those.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and leaves it at that. They continue in relative silence a few moments longer as Greg returns his attention to the tedium of his computer screen without further addressing Sherlock’s outburst. Sherlock thinks it may be possible that his comment is forgotten; Greg _is_ an idiot (though decidedly less so than many of his colleagues) after all. And Sherlock _did_ spontaneously, and not entirely unintentionally, distract him with the files.

Sherlock decides he doesn’t really want Greg to respond. He doesn't want to put to words this terrible, gnawing suspicion. He definitely doesn't want to discuss it with an outsider, even someone like Greg, who he almost considers a friend. But he knows he can't discuss it with the one person who might actually provide some insight. It will be devastating. A death blow for certain.

He can't.

He won't.

He tosses the file aside, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and inhales ragged and deep through his nose.

“I didn’t fall out of lo-” Greg’s voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat, sips his tepid coffee with a grimace, and continues without leaning to look around his monitor at Sherlock. “There was nothing quick about the end of my marriage.” He does glance up at the sound of Sherlock shifting in his chair. “‘Falling’ implies sudden. It wasn’t.”

Sherlock cocks his head just enough that he catches Greg’s eyes in his peripheral vision. He’s being studied. Scrutinized. It’s mortifying, and he suddenly understands what it is to be on the other side of his own methods. He attempts to school his features into some semblance of casual disconnect, but knows he’s caught out because Greg is standing, stretching, and dragging a straight back chair up next to him. As Greg sits backwards on the chair, his arms crossed over the back, Sherlock drops his chin to his chest, closes his eyes and exhales in frustration.

“So…”

“No.” His intent is to sound cutting, his usual abrasive, disagreeable self. He grimaces as he berates himself in his mind, because he knows all Greg is seeing is vulnerability.

Undeterred, Greg presses on. “John, is it?”

Sherlock doesn’t have to take this speculation, this invasion of that which is most precious. Doesn’t have to tell Greg a thing. He thinks he should just stand up, scatter the files, knock his chair over, make as dramatic a scene as possible, and storm out. That’s exactly what he should do. Wants to do.

He can’t.

He can’t make himself go.

Instead, he stays still, breath caught in his throat, eyes cast down to his hands in his lap. His hands that are trembling and fidgeting with a button on his jacket, and apparently moving of their own will. He can’t still them, no matter how hard he tries.

“I thought,” Greg clears his throat. He’s uncomfortable.

 _“Good,”_ Sherlock thinks to himself. He relishes the fact that he’s not alone in his misery.

“Uhm,” Greg tries again. “What’s her name? That nurse… Mary, yeah?”

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s done.”

“Done?” Incredulous, Greg leans closer. “He was talking about buying a ring. I thought…”

“Do you not understand the definition of the word done? Over. Through. Terminated…”

“All right, no need to be an arse about it.” It’s obvious Greg is confused and struggling as he tries to apply this new information. “He never mentioned. When?”

“Ages.” Voice dripping with disdain, Sherlock drags the word out attempting to convince Greg, himself as well, that the current topic of discussion is tiresome and beyond his scope of caring. Greg, to Sherlock’s dismay, laughs in response. _Laughs._

“Ages?” Still chuckling, Greg cards his hand through his hair. “You’ve only been home, what, a month? Before that he was planning his proposal.”

“Five weeks, three days,” Sherlock corrects him. Greg looks at him in dawning shock and he reaches what is clearly the correct conclusion based on the implications at the same moment Sherlock realizes exactly what his admission means.

“Y-you… You and John?” Greg blinks, his stunned expression slowly melts into something softer. Knowing. A bit devious. “Finally sorted yourselves out?”

Sherlock is blushing. He feels the heat rising, and there’s not a thing he can do to stop it. He’s not even embarrassed that Greg knows. He’s not embarrassed to be associated with John Watson in any way. And he’s definitely not embarrassed that Greg obviously assumes Sherlock is responsible for wrecking John’s plans with Mary. It’s worse. Oh, it’s so much worse than that.

Greg is looking at him expectantly, waiting for details. A happy announcement, perhaps. Sherlock has to sit on his hands because if he doesn’t he’s certain he’s going to pull that damned button right off.

“She left.” Sherlock attempts once more to derail Greg’s focus.

“Wha- who? Mary? _She_ left John?” Greg shakes his head with a huff. Sentiment. “That’s… Do you know why? I mean, beyond the obvious?” He gestures to Sherlock with a quick wave of his hand and an innuendo laden wink.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and flops his head back, slumping down in his seat with all the theatrics he can muster. “I believe her exact words were, ‘he never assaulted a patient because he was desperate to see _me_.' And then she was gone.”

“Gone? Just like that?” Greg looks disbelieving, and Sherlock thinks maybe, on occasion, he should give him more credit.

“Just like that,” he repeats, his tone a touch too chipper. He doesn’t want to recount the whole sordid story. Greg is grinning like an idiot. He’s going to have to tell the whole sordid story. Sherlock covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow and groans.

“C’mon, gimme.”

“Why do you _care_?” Sherlock actually whines.

“Seriously?” Greg laughs again and throws his hands up. “Just start with this… When did John know?”

“When did John know what?”

“ _Sherlock._ Be serious.”

 _“Always,”_ Sherlock thinks to himself. _“John has always known his own heart. I’m the one who ruined it. Ruined everything before it even had a chance to start.”_

"About the time he moved in. The first time,” is what he says instead.

“Poor bastard,” Greg shakes his head. “And you?”

“After the meeting with Moriarty at the aquatic center,” Sherlock lies. He worries his lower lip between his teeth and wills Greg, who is watching him with narrowed eyes, not to question it. Not to press. Because the truth, well, truth is terrible. It’s terrible and he knows he won’t survive the explanation.

“Why do you look like someone's just kicked your puppy?” His face is etched with concern, but Greg admirably keeps his tone light.

“I…” Sherlock covers his mouth with his hand shakes his head. _“Please,”_ he begs silently, _“please don't make me say it.”_

“Sherlock, is this about what you said before?” Greg’s voice is gentle, quiet. He lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock can't bring himself to shrug it away. “Do you think John is having doubts? Is he…”

“No!” It's sharp and emphatic. Sherlock forces himself to sit up, and shakes his head with vehemence. He doesn't doubt John in this. Could never. “No,” he repeats, and this time it's a whisper. “Me,” and his voice breaks with the admission. “It's me. I don't think I…” Sherlock can't continue. He fights the ache in his chest that seems to be growing. Expanding. Consuming. Choking.

Greg exhales slowly. He's bracing himself to ask the ugly question he doesn't really want to know the answer to. “Did John force hims…”

“No! What? No. If anything, I…” Sherlock clenches his hands into fists. He will not tolerate Greg thinking ill of John Watson. He will not allow it.

“Easy, Sherlock,” Greg makes a placating motion with his hand. “You understand why I have to ask?” Sherlock stares at him, slowly releases his hands, and barely manages to nod.

“There is obviously something I'm not understanding.” His hand is still on Sherlock’s shoulder, so he squeezes lightly. It's meant to comfort, but it feels condescending. Sherlock does shrug him away this time. “You have to help me out here. Have you ever had feelings for John?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. How can he explain to Greg what he could never tell John? That he doesn't believe in destiny, or anything really, but he believes with all that he is that he was born with a piece missing from his heart (not the physical one, the sentimental nonsense one), and that only John is capable of making it whole? Instead, he growls. “Yes, of course. Don't be dull.”

“Then, what changed?”

He knows the exact moment his ability to love John died. It was as real as death. And that's what he'd felt. Grief. Cavernous, tormenting grief. He'd mourned the loss, mourns it still. But he can't tell John, because he can't watch him break a second time. He can't be the cause of John Watson’s heart breaking a second time. Because this time, the damage will be irreparable, he has no doubt of that. “Me. I changed.”

Sherlock can see his own grief resting heavy on Greg’s shoulders. “When? When did you…”

 _“Just before our love got lost,*”_ he thinks. Sherlock closes his eyes against the tears he feels forming. He's done this to himself. To the both of them. “I never should have come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This line and the title of this story are from the song [ "A Case of You"](https://youtu.be/020l9ZLFrck) by Joni Mitchell.


	2. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a flashback to the night Sherlock returned. I had a bit of fun with canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: A song by a male artist
> 
> (I suppose a band counts)

It is against the good advice of his esteemed counsel (but then, when does he ever _willingly_ take Mycroft’s advice?), and his own better judgment, that Sherlock asks the driver to drop him at The Landmark and then tells him he can leave. The time has come for action, and he will not abandon his purpose.

He isn't certain how John will react. 

Not entirely, anyway. 

He's done the maths, balanced the probabilities, and allowed for several potentially unforeseen variables. And, perhaps most dangerously, he has hope. At least he thinks that's what it is. He feels as if a hive’s worth of worker bees have taken up their task inside the previously hollow cavity behind his ribs (two years gone, separated from the light and warmth of John Watson have left him that way). They aren't angry and swarming, but excited. Vibrating. Undulating with life, purpose, and potential.

Sherlock flicks an imaginary bit of lint from the immaculately restored sleeve of his coat as he takes in the front of the restaurant. John is here on a date, that much is obvious. The John he remembers is financially mindful; this is not his typical fare. So, a special occasion to warrant the expense. Possibly a birthday. Sherlock checks his internal calendar; he's not sure of the date (unimportant), but John's birthday is in the Spring ( _”It’s important, if you won't go, you at least have to do this,” he remembers Greg forcing him to record an awkward greeting via video_ ), and it is definitely late Autumn now. So not John's birthday. Possibly an anniversary. None of John's previous entanglements had lasted long enough to prompt such sentimental celebration (he ignores the fact that he may have had something to do with that problem).

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock pushes through a small party of people and enters the restaurant. It's meant to be classy, highly polished, but it seems garrish and overly bright compared to the dusky damp of the city street. He isn't yet reacclimated to existing in large groups of people, the vibrations in his chest turn just the tiniest bit angry. He scratches idly at a long ago healed scar hidden under his clothes on his bicep, and waves away the young man who tries to take his coat.

“Meeting a friend, won't be just a moment.” Sherlock ducks past the flustered man, steps into the main dining room and freezes when his eyes find John sitting, unaccompanied, but not alone (date, definitely a woman, has made a dash to the loo). The roiling in his chest forces his breathing to stutter and the noise around him goes silent in his ears.

He's miscalculated.

John is good in a crisis. Better than, actually. He's bloody brilliant, and Sherlock will challenge anyone at any time on that point. But, John Watson hates surprises. He'd seen enough with Sherlock that he had become passable at masking certain reactions. But Sherlock has been gone for two years, and John is likely to be out of practice.

 _“Unknown variable,”_ the John Watson who has taken up residence in Sherlock's Mind Palace states boldly. For two years he has been Sherlock’s constant companion, moral compass, and the subject of more than a few fantasies built purely from speculation. A poor substitute for the real thing Sherlock thinks, but necessary all the same. 

The John in his head is perfect. Magnificent. Athletic, but not overly muscled. Fathomless, nearly indigo eyes. Golden hair flecked with silver, slightly longer than military regulation, Sherlock’s preferred length. Clean shaven. He wears the beloved brown brogues, dark denims, and the striped jumper Sherlock stole from the laundry and took with him. He is witty and commanding. His humor is wicked and his compassion is deep. He is strong. Steady in all things. And he loves Sherlock openly, without hesitation. Without apology.

The John seated before him… He is broken. Sherlock bites back a groan. He is soft; only remnants of the muscle tone from his army days remain. Sherlock recognizes the neglect there; John is underweight, as he was the first time they met. The light is gone from his eyes. His hair is too long. There is more silver than he imagined; it could look distinguished, but John hasn't made the effort. And the mustache. Sherlock will make John an appointment with the finest barber tomorrow. The suit he wears is of finer stuff than anything Sherlock has seen him wear before; clearly someone else has dressed him. He looks handsome in the suit, Sherlock’s chest hums back to life, but John looks unsettled wearing it. Uncomfortable in his own skin. There is still strength there. The compassion is undeniable. But John Watson looks uncertain. World weary and on edge. It doesn't sit well on him. It's all wrong. John, the real John, isn't right. 

Sherlock presses a knuckle to his mouth and suppresses a sob. He's done this. He's ruined everything again. 

He can't stay here.

For all his planning, the unknown variables prove more detrimental than he'd allowed for. 

The man at the table next to where he is standing drops to one knee just as Sherlock decides to make a run for it. He side steps and stumbles as the overjoyed woman at the table gasps and cries out incoherently, and the surrounding diners and servers all clap politely. Sherlock stands stark still, imposing on the unfolding tableaux, when he feels it. The unguarded weight of John Watson’s full attention directed at him.

Glacially he turns, telling himself he's doing John a kindness. He isn't. What color John still had drains from his face. He blinks rapidly a few times, and again, working his jaw as if to speak. No words come. He fumbles and drops the small object he'd been fiddling with -- a blue velvet ring box, Sherlock notes for later consideration -- and it tumbles to the floor and lands just out of his reach. John clenches his hands into fists, the left one is trembling. He shakes his head in disbelief and squeezes his eyes tight shut. 

“No.” A tremulous whisper.

“John.” Sherlock stretches one hand out to him, afraid to move (the bees are swarming in earnest now), but compelled to draw nearer. 

He's so close.

It's been so long.

Sherlock wants so much.

“No.” Not even a whisper. A silent plea. Tears escape in spite of John's valiant effort. 

Sherlock closes the distance between them. His knee brushes against John's, and he places one hand on John's shoulder. He goes completely rigid and his breath turns ragged. “John.” He slides his fingers up, just enough to find John's pulse. It's worrisome. 

“You're dead,” John whispers. He still won't open his eyes.

“I'm not.” Sherlock considers making a cutting remark, something that will prove his existence to his friend, when a petite blonde woman pushes him away and kneels in front of John.

“John? What's happened?” She deftly feels his pulse for herself as she reaches for a glass of water. “John, you need to breathe. Here, take a drink, love.”

Sherlock scoffs at the same time John mumbles, “Mary.”

“I'm here, love. Open your eyes, John. Look at me.” 

“I…” Exhaling slowly, John wipes his eyes dry with his thumbs, and finally forces them open. He looks up, and his eyes are alive once more, glistening, and he doesn't even glance at Mary before he's staring at Sherlock. Emotions too numerous for Sherlock to count pass over John's expressive face. “Tell me you can see him too.”

Sherlock is gutted.

“John, I don't understand.” Mary stands slowly, watching John with sharp, keen eyes. She turns her focus to Sherlock. “I don't…” With a gasp she covers her mouth. “It's you. You're him. I thought…” She looks from John to Sherlock and back again, her glance only pausing momentarily on the misplaced ring box.

“In the flesh.” For lack of any better ideas, Sherlock reaches his hand out to Mary. It seems the polite thing to do. He has wrecked her evening and interrupted her engagement after all. “Sherlock Holmes. And you are…”

Mary cuts him off proper with a brisk step forward and an open hand smack across his left cheek. “Do you have _any_ idea what you've done to him?”

Sherlock doesn't allow her the satisfaction of seeing him wince or even rub his cheek. He opens his mouth to respond and is stunned when she smacks him again.

“You destroyed him!” Mary gestures wildly at John, who seems lost in his own mind. “You broke his heart, you monster.”

Toeing the ring box with his shoe, nudging it closer to Mary, Sherlock knows the exact wrong thing to say, and says it anyway. “Clearly, if he's settling for the likes of you.” They've attracted an audience now, and a few people gasp and chuckle nervously.

“Two years, you bastard!” Mary shouts, forgetting propriety, and pulls her arm back again. Sherlock braces himself, but the smack never comes. 

“Enough.” John is still too pale. He looks lost. Frail. When he stands and steps forward to halt Mary, it's with a limp. Sherlock frowns, and the swarm works knots in his stomach. “Not here. Not now.” He drops Mary's arm. “I'm going home.” Mary nods and stoops down to pick up the ring box. John shakes his head and takes it from her. “Not now.” She nods, and to Sherlock’s delight, she looks stricken.

John turns to Sherlock and looks him in the eye. “One word, Sherlock,” his voice is soft, barely loud enough to hear. “One word is all I would have needed.” He reaches up and brushes a feather light touch over the blossoming bruise on Sherlock's cheek.

He feels _the healing in the fingertips.*_

_It burned like fire.*_

The heat spreads and flows like honey through his veins. 

He follows John out of the dining room, leaving Mary to settle the bill, and helps him into his coat. He's confused when John stops outside to hail a cab, the restaurant is mere blocks from 221b, but he can read the exhaustion in the lines of John's body. Anything John Watson wants, Sherlock will make it a reality. He helps John into the car, and moves to slide in after him.

John's hand, warm and surprisingly firm, on his chest gives him pause. “No.”

“John?”

“I can't. Not tonight.” He's close to tears again as he gives the driver an address Sherlock doesn't know.

“But…” Sherlock's hand clenches over John's hand still resting over his heart. He can't breath. There is upheaval in his core. “I thought…”

“Soon.” The light has gone from John's eyes once more, but he attempts an apologetic smile as he closes the car door. “Soon,” he mouths through the window.

“John.” Sherlock watches the car take John away from him. Watches as it turns a corner and vanishes into the night. Watches as Mary mucks about trying to hail her own cab, and refuses to offer assistance. Refuses to acknowledge her. Refuses to watch as the car takes her off to the home she shares with John. 

Sherlock turns and slowly makes his way down Marylebone Road. He commits John's address to memory as he traces the path John's fingers had trailed down his cheek with his own fingers. _Soon,_ John said. A promise.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *These lines and the chapter title are from the song [I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For](https://youtu.be/e3-5YC_oHjE) by U2.


	3. Too Good at Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More flashback to the night Sherlock returned. John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 3: A song from 2017.
> 
> Dang, this was hard for me.

It's not the fact that Mary isn't likely to follow him home (as stubborn as he is in his own right, John has seen Mary stand her ground; it was her persistence, her sheer force of will, that finally broke through the reinforced barriers he'd set around his heart after Sherlock jumped) that has John on edge. And he knows it's not the ruined date, or the fact that he's essentially withdrawn his marriage proposal (though he never had the chance to ask properly) that is keeping her away. She isn't ashamed of her behavior towards Sherlock either, he saw the same anger rekindled in her that she'd harbored for weeks after she learned that Sherlock had jumped right in front of him. 

No, stubborn, persistent Mary, who has shown him nothing but patience as he attempted, and failed more often than not, to reorder his life post-Sherlock, is keeping her distance because she believes he is too cautious to rush the choice every witness at The Landmark knows he now has to make. She knows that when John chooses, there will only be room for one (John's bared his heart to her more times than he's comfortable admitting). She doesn't know, there's no way she could have heard, that John’s decision is made. She doesn't know the promise he made to Sherlock, so she's giving him the space she thinks he needs to sort himself out.

He thinks he ought to call her. Tell her. Tear off the metaphorical bandaid. If he's going to throw away everything they've built, precarious as it is, he should at least have the decency to let her know she can sleep in her own bed. But he finds he doesn't have the will within himself to dial the number.

The reason is simple. He isn't surprised that Mary isn't following him home. He is surprised, shocked quite frankly, and perhaps a bit disappointed, that Sherlock isn't already in the flat waiting for him.

John locks the door and turns out the front lights. He isn't expecting anyone. What's left of his heart shatters a bit, and he leans back against the door and slides to the floor as his damned leg gives out from underneath him. Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he covers his face with his hands, and he imagines... 

_A movement in the loo draws his attention up the stairs. Sherlock, not Mary, is descending. He looks as he always has, his likeness softened and near luminescent after years of John's focus and perfecting. Hair artfully tousled, eyes like the sea gleaming, and his mouth quirked into a smug grin as he wraps John's robe around himself. He demands John make tea._

The fantasy is domestic, pedestrian, simple. John's heart aches for it. Aches because he knows he's going to have to have proof, every day for the rest of his life, that Sherlock is alive. Aches with jealousy knowing that if Sherlock’s alive he was working, and if he was working, someone besides John was working with and for him, making John’s presence unnecessary. His heart aches with a bit of anger, and he's certain he's earned that one, though he struggles with it because Sherlock’s alive, and isn't that exactly what he's been longing for for two years? And then there's the grief. More than an ache, it's an insistent, consuming weight. He lost everything when he lost Sherlock, including himself. And now Sherlock’s back? He's touched him, felt him with his own hands. But the constant hollowness in John's chest hasn't gone, and he still feels like a stranger in his own skin.

He forces himself up off the floor, and limps to the kitchen. Bypassing the locked liquor cabinet, he considers the kettle, but can't be arsed to put in the effort. He pours himself a glass of water and stands in the pale moonlit kitchen not drinking it. 

John knows he needs to get himself ordered. Triage the gaping hole in his chest, and go. To Sherlock (it's obvious he isn't coming, and John is put out that Sherlock chooses now to do as he asks). To Baker Street. To the place where answers await, where apologies, like shadows, will alight gently upon them. Where too many things will be said with too few words… Words ghosted in halting warm breath and spelled out like braille under callused yet tender fingers. 

Halting that line of thought, John sets the still full water glass aside and moves without thinking to the hall closet. He retrieves the locked box that stores his gun (Mary knows he has it, and has never questioned why) and the packed and ready go-bag he placed there the first night he moved in (Mary never questioned that either, and he finds he doesn't want to know the reason why), and pauses. 

Going to Sherlock would be so easy. He's still in his coat and shoes. But he's the one who walked away from Sherlock, less than an hour prior, and he has no idea what Sherlock’s intentions truly are (and he never actually said he was staying at Baker Street, but really, where else _could_ Sherlock Holmes go?). Perhaps he was just being kind, letting John know he's back. 

John doesn't believe that for a moment.

He knows Sherlock. Even after two years. He was unmoored, lost… John saw genuine hurt when he turned him away, and the spark that burned in his eyes when John made his promise.

John knows Sherlock. Knows that in this, he will honor John's wishes. _“You must think that I'm new to this.*_ That somehow I could have forgotten you,” he whispers to no one.

Besides, what John said and what John wants are at war within him. He shrugs out of his coat, toes off his shoes, and retreats with his gun case and packed bag past the master bedroom to the guest room. He can't sleep in the bed he shares with Mary. It's not that he doesn't love her anymore, after just one traumatic encounter with a dead man, though he wonders if what he feels for her is love at all. She saved him, after everything. But it's not the same as what he feels for Sherlock. More than feels, it's what he knows, it's a visceral experience overwhelming all of his senses.

He stops and looks at the framed caricature hanging on the wall outside the bedroom. He'd taken Mary on a picnic in the park, and they'd stopped to watch the artist, deciding on the portrait on a whim. John had tipped the artist too much because Mary was so pleased with the end result, and they'd stopped for a frame on the way home. They look content, genuinely happy. But the cold truth is, it is, in fact just that, a caricature. He wonders if they would have lasted given the opportunity. And no interruptions.

”I am sorry, you know,” John runs his finger through the fine layer of dust on the frame. “But the truth is, _I'm never gonna let you close to me, even though you mean the most to me.*"_ And he knows it's true. Mary is important. 

But Sherlock is everything.

And he wonders when saying goodbye became so easy.

He closes and locks the bedroom door behind him, slides his kit and his gun under the bed, strips to his pants and vest, and climbs into the bed.

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow he'll go to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *These lines and the chapter title are from the song [Too Good at Goodbyes](https://youtu.be/J_ub7Etch2U) by Sam Smith.


	4. Hooked on a Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More flashback... Sherlock goes home.
> 
> Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 4: Song from a movie.
> 
> This chapter was getting out of hand. So I'm dividing it up.

The walk from the Landmark, down Marylebone, and around to Baker Street is too short. Or Sherlock’s stride is too quick, more like. He can’t help himself. He’s only been back in London proper, left to his own devices, for a matter of hours. The city, _his_ city, is alive as she ever was. Pulsing. Coursing. He can’t resist being caught in the ebb and flow of traffic and humanity. And life. The cacophony pulls him along, surges around him, washes over him. It’s like electricity. He wants to thrill in the elation of anonymity (he’s technically still dead, for a few more hours at least) encompassed as he is in the oblivious masses.

He wants this.

 _Needs_ it.

As heady as it is, he knows it could be more. _Exhilarating_ is just beyond his grasp -- a shadow teasing along his periphery. He knows exactly what he’s missing. It’s the intoxicating adrenaline of contradiction. The eye of the storm. Dangerous and steadfast. Steel and wool. 

Soldier and doctor. 

He pauses just long enough to draw the ire of the couple walking behind him (they are forced to relinquish the hold they have on one another), and lights one of the disappointing posh, _low tar,_ cigarettes from the packet he lifted from Mycroft. It’s his third, despite the short walk. 

The John in his head emerges, a vaporous, swirling fog of nicotine smoke churns low around his knees. With a frown he waves his hand in front of his face and coughs for effect. Sherlock ignores him, picks up his pace, and walks to the end of the block. He doesn’t stop long enough to actually check oncoming traffic, he simply turns, darts across the street, and turns back toward the direction he originally came from.

 _”He’s not going to be happy.”_ The jumper wearing apparition coughs again.

“You’re already hurt and angry. Broken. In love with that… _woman,_ ” Sherlock spits the last word, drops the cigarette butt, and grinds it viciously with the toe of his shoe. He lights another and keeps walking. “I fail to see how things can get much worse.” He’s past the point of enjoying the cigarettes and has moved on to knowingly being a menace. Except his preferred audience is conspicuously absent.

 _”You’re only hurting yourself.”_ John-in-his-head’s voice has gone raspy. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the fact that he’s affected, and only grunts in response. _”You know I’m not him, right? I’m you. You’re projecting again.”_

“Shut. Up.” Sherlock hisses, and it earns him a wary glare from a father who steps between him and his teenage daughter. She’s too distracted by her phone to notice him, but that doesn’t keep Sherlock from noticing that she snuck out with her girlfriend last night, and has plans to do so again tonight… And that her father knows about the sneaking, but not about the girlfriend. He shakes his head with a growl and pushes on to the corner, where he abruptly changes course and doubles back. 

_”You should do something to fix this.”_

“You _left_ me there!” He lights another cigarette, and then gestures broadly back in the direction of the Landmark. Sherlock stops short when an overzealous cabbie pulls up next to him. They stare at one another for a moment, and Sherlock can’t decide if it will be more embarrassing to laugh or cry at how pathetic he looks in his reflection.

 _”_ You _let him go,”_ Not-John whispers with his damned smoke gruff voice.

With a roar, Sherlock tugs at his hair and shouts, “Get out!” It’s meant for the spectre haunting him, but the cabbie jumps in his seat, swears, and peels into traffic, ignoring a potential fare just half a block away. Puffing manically at the cigarette, Sherlock storms to the end of block, and trudges back across the street with vindictive purpose. He lets the lights change on him, eliciting angry honks and profanity.

 _”You know what this is, don't you?”_ The nicotine haze is curling in artful whisps up around Mind Palace John's head now, and he's blinking rapidly to keep his gleaming eyes clear. His expression isn't one of hurt, or anger, or grief, like the ones Real Life John wore. Wears still, most likely. No, this is his _Sherlock’s an idiot, and that's why I love him_ face. It rankles.

“I suppose you’ll tell me.” Sherlock mumbles, maintaining his trudge. He's suddenly very weary. The life and light of the city has lost its vigor. The same pulsing current that electrified him only moments before is draining him, pulling at his core. 

_”Oscillation on the pavement,”_ Not-John rasps. Despite watery eyes and a cough, he smiles his most irksome smile. It's utterly charming, and Sherlock is smitten.

 _”What you do to me*”_ Sherlock thinks to himself, and John's smile goes a bit lopsided. “I'm sure I don't know what you're carrying on about.” Sherlock slows his pace even more, stops and turns slowly back. He's standing in front of Speedy’s, trying not to look at the straightened knocker adorning 221b. He's suddenly very aware of how much time he's wasted pacing. Avoiding.

_”What is it you said that once? Always means a love affa…”_

“Stop. Please, just stop.” Sherlock drops his cigarette into a puddle and runs both hands back through his hair, tugging and clamping his hands on either side of his head. He does oscillate in earnest then, a few quick tight loops as his eyes search up and down Baker Street.

_”Just…”_

“No. We're done. You're done. I need…” The front door of 221b swings open, and he ducks quickly behind one of the cafe tables. Carrying a packed overnight bag, Mrs. Hudson exits just as a cab pulls up. She locks up, clucks at a discarded cigarette butt on the otherwise tidy pavement, and waits, looking as dignified and full of fire as ever, as the cabbie huffs, heaves himself from the car, and opens her door for her. Sherlock covers his mouth with his hand, lest he betray his position with a chuckle.

 _”You've a key. It's improbable she's allowed your brother to change the locks.”_ The gruffness of John's voice is easing, and Sherlock considers lighting another cigarette.

“She and I will be discussing that.” He stands slowly as the cab pulls away. “But now, there's somewhere I need to go.”

 _”Yes!”_ John looks as if he wants to kiss him. Sherlock considers pursuing that endeavor, but perseveres and masters himself.

“Lestrade.”

 _”What? No!”_ Mind Palace John wears frustration almost as endearingly as he wears smug confidence.

Intentionally flagging down a cab this time, Sherlock glances back at 221b. He doesn't want to go back without John. It feels wrong. Vacant. “Soon,” he reminds himself. _”Soon."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This line and the title of this chapter are from the song [Hooked on a Feeling](https://youtu.be/_ZKZ_lQ5FWQ) by Blue Swede, from the Guardians of the Galaxy sound track.
> 
> I also need to make mention of the lovely [Ariane Devere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64764.html) and her masterful Sherlock transcripts.
> 
> Also, by this point, we're all Mind Palace John a bit, aren't we?


End file.
